


No Touching

by Mandibles



Series: In which I try to cope with the Colton Thing [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, M/M, Sloppy Makeouts, The Porsche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you call a guy that you make out with occasionally? . . . A good fucking kisser, apparently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Touching

Okay, so let’s be straight here: they aren’t dating. They aren’t fuckbuddies or friends either; they don’t even like each other. But, um, they’re . . . something, Jackson supposes, they have something. Seriously, what do you call a guy that you make out with occasionally?

. . . A good fucking kisser, apparently.

After a month or so of messing around like this, Stilinski’s gotten ridiculously good with his mouth. He knows exactly what Jackson likes now, knows to suck Jackson’s bottom lip between his teeth and lap at the roof of his mouth. Jackson hates to admit it—like really, really hates it—but, he turns into absolute putty under his tongue and he would do anything if only Stilinski pushed enough.

There are rules though, of course there are. Well, just one: no touching, beyond the obvious kissing parts. Whenever they meet in bathroom stalls during classes or in empty classrooms during lunch or, riskier yet, under the bleachers on the field, they make out with smacking lips and clacking teeth with the ferocity of all other horny teenaged boys, but they keep their hands in pockets or bunched tightly in hoodies and jeans to keep from breaking that one rule.

Because that would mean something and neither of them wants that to happen.

Still, it’s starting to get to him, this constant state of blue balls Stilinski leaves him with. Seriously, Stilinski only just rapped his knuckles on the driver’s side window of the Porsche and Jackson’s already hard in his jeans, biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood when he unlocks the door.

“Hey,” he murmurs as he slides into the passenger’s seat. Jackson only nods in greeting, but that doesn’t matter when the ever-impatient Stilinski pushes a kiss onto him before he’s even shut the door.

Jackson drops his mouth open instantly, tilting his head and dragging Stilinski’s tongue out with his own. They don’t hold back or tease or laugh here; there’s only hard, wet desperation, as if they have to take as much as they can before their senses kick in. Jackson’s claws into his pants leg when Stilinski does it, flicks the roof of his mouth until it tickles, making him so fucking hot, sweat breaking out across his neck. Stilinski groans suddenly, pitch low, and every fucking muscle in Jackson jumps, his heart especially leaping his throat.

Stilinski breaks contact for breath, but Jackson only follows, sucking pinks lips and dropping them and sucking again. He looks so _hungry_ , Jackson thinks when he meets half-lidded brown eyes, pupils dilated in in lust. Maybe—Maybe he— Jackson’s breath hitches and he puts his all into that fucking kiss, pushing forward—

“Wha—Jack—”

—running a hand over a buzzed head—

“—son. What are y—”

—and, another pressing against his chest, sliding lower, lower—

“Jackson!”

The shout jars Jackson back to reality where he’s shoving Stilinski into the passenger door, cramming them both into the small space.

And, he’s _touching_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, making to scramble away, but hands stop him, _touch_ him, pull him back down to slam—rather painfully—against Stilinski’s mouth. This kiss is different, fierce and feral, and adrenaline sends blood rushing in Jackson’s ears until he’s useless and panting and lightheaded and practically in Stilinski’s lap. It’s consoling, though, that the other teen is in the same state of disarray, looking this strange mix of utterly terrified and terribly aroused as he whips out his teeth and really _bites_.

Then, Stilinski draws back slightly to tug at Jackson’s arms. “C-Can you—Here. Just come here,” he commands between careless nips to full lips. Jackson finds himself obeying without thinking, arranging himself so that he really is straddling Stilinski; the car’s roof isn’t that high and he has to crouch in an awkward bend, but that doesn’t matter when he feels the a hard bulge beneath him and Stilinski’s dragging down his collar to continue kissing him.

There’s more to this kiss than lips and tongues, much more. Hands claw at scalps and clothes and backs and teeth sink into cheeks and chins as much as lips. Jackson rolls his hips, grinds as well as he can, but the angle isn’t right and though Stilinski seems to wince more than anything, he doesn’t stop him, instead moaning loudly, encouragingly. It’s actually rather gross, this kiss, saliva rolling from the corner of Stilinski’s mouth, but somehow that makes him like it more.

Stilinski ends the kiss again with a jerk and Jackson groans in dismay.

“ _Shit_ ,” Stilinski wheezes, shifting and groping at his pockets frantically. “Shit, my phone—” Jackson moves off slightly; Stilinski arches, pulls his cell from his back pocket, and answers it quickly. “Dad! H-Hey, dad, what’s up?”

Stilinski’s eyes are trained on his as he speaks; Jackson, though, focuses on his stupid, abused lips.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just—just hanging with a friend, you know.” He settles a trembling hand on Jackson’s hip. “Yeah. A friend.”

Flushing in delight despite himself, Jackson dips his head and Stilinski spasms when he starts to suck at the skin. Stilinski’s hand creeps up his side, fingers stroking up his side.

“Um, yeah, I—Actually I was—” The hand stops, drops. Jackson stops, too. “Okay. Yeah, it’s no problem. See you. Love you, Dad,” he adds offhandedly and Jackson can’t help his twitch.

He turns his head away when Stilinski hangs up, not caring to face the apology he knows is there. He’s already working his way back to the driver’s seat when Stilinski mumbles, “Sorry, I—”

Jackson waves him off. But, Stilinski isn’t able to leave it at that.

“It’s just I told him I’d be back for dinner, you know, and this wasn’t—” This wasn’t supposed to take that long. This wasn’t supposed to get this far. This wasn’t supposed to _happen_.

Jackson suddenly feels incredibly foolish.

Settled back behind the wheel, combing fingers through his hair as the high from a moment ago dies down, Jackson feels enough like himself to mutter, “Whatever.” When Stilinski doesn’t make to move, in fact looks like he might reach out for him, Jackson wrings the steering wheel between his hands with gritted teeth. “Just _go_ ,” he hisses.

A moment passes, Stilinski swallowing loudly, and then, the car door opens and takes him with it. It barely closes before the Porsche is roaring back to life and Jackson is stepping down on the accelerator, because there’s something nastily victorious about being the first to leave, and, if anything, Jackson likes to win. 


End file.
